


Tall Trees, Long Shadows

by GalacticDavey



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (also in the past but it comes up a lot), (because that's the power of trauma baby), (everyone is Of Age but there's a gap), (in the past again), (in the past), (mostly mild but it gets Fucky when Zarkon enters the mix so it bears keeping in mind), Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Elemental magic but with a twist, Fae & Fairies, Hitchhiking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Suicide Attempt, Trans Male Character, Trans Thace, Trauma, they/them pronouns for kolivan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-26 18:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15669180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticDavey/pseuds/GalacticDavey
Summary: Lotor is on the run from the mysterious father he and his mother have been hiding from his whole life. Thace has been running from his past for the last decade. A telepath and a telekinetic, the two already walk a thin line between our world and another, but shit really hits the fan when those worlds collide head-on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the Lotor Big Bang! Writing this has been a blast, and it's been a real labor of love. It is set in the same universe as [Ghosts in Quicksilver](https://elliottdunstan.com/alkimia/), a kick-ass web novel, with permission from the author, of course - not to mention he's been just as hyped for this story as I am. Thank you <3<3<3
> 
> Also, check out the AMAZING art [here](http://craterteeth.tumblr.com/post/176967699067/httpsarchiveofourownorgworks15669180chapters) and [here](http://craterteeth.tumblr.com/post/176967747987/httpsarchiveofourownorgworks15669180chapters)!

I.

 

He was five years old the first time his mother kissed his hand and dragged a blade across his palm. He’d flinched, but her grip—firm, gentle, her fingers cool wrapped around his tiny wrist—held him in place, and she cooed to him gently until he blinked away the tears in his eyes, until he watched with wide-eyed, childish interest as she carefully collected red drops in a bowl.

When she was finished, she gave him a knowing smile, eyes glittering as she passed her hand over the wound, chuckling as he stared in awe at his now unmarked palm.

His mother was magical.

Maybe every child, at some point, thinks their parents capable of impossible things, but in this case it was literal: Lotor had seen his mother do any number of incredible, miraculous things, from communing with animals to, well, healing wounds and sickness. She sold potions he didn’t know the purposes of, could turn objects into other objects (he learned later that this was called _alchemy_ ), and was often puttering about their cottage long into the night, strange lights flashing underneath the crack in his door making his imagination run wild over what she was up to out there.

He followed her as she took the bowl over to her table, standing on tiptoe to peer over the edge, trying to get a good look at whatever magic his mother was working with his blood.

“What are you doing, mama?”

“Research,” she replied simply, lips curving upward—her son’s curiosity and hunger for knowledge was a never ending source of pride (amusement?). He blinked up at her with his too-blue eyes, confused, until she chuckled and knelt down beside him, so they were eye to eye. “You are very, very special, darling,” she said by way of explanation, as if that would clear up any and all questions on the matter, her cold fingers combing through his hair and caressing a round brown cheek. Her eyes glimmered in a way Lotor could not understand.

 

II.

 

He was seven years old, watching his mother stitch warding talismans into the tags of his clothes, as she explained once again that he was special, _so very special_ , and there were people out in the world who wouldn’t like it. Who might try to hurt him because of it.

When he was older, when he could understand, she would confess, his hands clasped tight in her own, that he was a crime.

But then, nestled against his mother’s arm and listening to her hum as she threaded her needle, he couldn’t have wrapped his mind around being guilty of simply existing.

 

When Lotor started school for the first time, he noticed something peculiar about himself (his classmates would point out many, many things in the years to come); what initially were only vague, muddy feelings of something Off when sometimes speaking to his mother only grew as he was socialized. He could always tell when someone was lying. This grew into understanding, without much effort, the feelings people around him tried to hide.

His mother was ecstatic when he told her.

He always assumed he was just good at reading people.

 

III.

 

At fifteen, she finally told him about his father.  
At sixteen, she explained why she had to leave (her hands cool and dry around his) that by being born, by living, by breathing, he broke a law almost as old as mankind itself.

“Mama,” he breathed, “if you knew what could happen, then why did you…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. She squeezed his hands tight.

“Because I loved you, of course,” she answered.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

IV.

 

The boy grew. He grew until he could hardly be considered a “boy” anymore, until his mother had to stand on her toes to kiss his cheeks as she saw him off to school. As he grew, so did his mysterious “skills.” What started as an uncannily keen understanding of the true feelings of those around him became, if he concentrated at least, the even more inexplicable ability to guess at thoughts, at secrets.

He learned quickly that people keep things to themselves for a reason, and learning about them isn’t always fun. He started outright avoiding it, much to his mother’s dismay.

What was fun, though, was that sometimes, if he focused very hard, he could make people do things. Just small things. Once, he made a boy who made fun of him pour milk into his own lap.

It was silly. It was, mostly, harmless. Lotor had snickered behind his hand, watching as the bully blinked slowly, too stunned and confused for words, and decided that this, at least, was something he wouldn’t mind utilizing now and then.

 

One morning, he woke up to find his mother asleep at her table, having worked long into the night and passed out there. It wasn’t uncommon—Honerva often lost herself in her work. As he was laying a blanket over her shoulders, he noticed his own name scrawled on a page of his mother’s notebook, though whatever else she’d written was obscured by her hand.

He deliberated for a moment, and then, careful not to wake her, began gently inching her fingers to the side.

Her notes said he was a “Sulfur,” but he couldn’t read anything else to figure out what that meant. When he got home from school, she had cleared off the table, and that notebook was nowhere to be found, despite his furtive searches for it.

 

After a while, his curiosity got the best of him, and carefully, he pushed into his mother’s mind.

 

It was something about elements, though that much he knew from what little he had been able to see in her notes—he’d studied a bit of alchemy in his free time, and was familiar with the seven basic ones, though he still couldn’t fathom what sulfur had to do with _him_. He pressed a little deeper.

Through the dense fog of thoughts and information, he picked out the loudest bits; abilities corresponding to elements; usually triggered by specific events or stimuli; _did I traumatize my own child? Maybe this was a mistake...don’t want to hurt him...but...could be even more than I’d imagined_ ; research; experimentation; conflict. He paused. He didn’t mean to linger, but he was suddenly seeing himself through his mother’s eyes, feeling what she felt.

There was love there, and he clung to that, because there were other things that he didn’t think a parent was supposed to feel when looking at their child.

 

He was reminded, once again, that ignorance is bliss, and he didn’t go poking around in Honerva’s mind again. Asking about what it meant to be a “Sulfur” would have probably been less painful, and would have garnered a more thorough explanation, but now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know at all.

From then on, Lotor had to push away the lingering feeling of being someone’s experiment.

 

V.

 

The howling wind, and an accompanying slamming noise that Lotor couldn’t identify, woke him up early in the morning. Dawn just beginning to break, and thin light shone through the space between his curtains.

The sound had his eyes flying open in panic, and he threw off his blankets, swearing as the chill immediately sank into his bones.

“Mom?” He called, voice still thick with sleep as he peered out of his room. He identified the noise quickly—the front door was wide open, slamming against the wall each time the wind caught it, and snow had drifted into the house, covering the welcome mat and the floor around the entrance.

Then he saw the footprints, and his heart dropped.

“Mom,” he called again, rushing to his mother’s room, hoping— “Mama?”

She was gone. Lotor’s breath was coming fast, and he willed himself not to start hyperventilating. He didn’t have time to panic.

He dressed in a flurry, grabbing whatever clothes happened to be on his floor before throwing on his coat and stuffing his feet into his boots, then he was out the door. It was still snowing, but he could still make out the indents of footprints, softened by the fresh snow, and followed them toward the woods, his stomach sinking deeper and deeper into his boots as he went.

The footprints continued into the woods, the branches protecting them from being obscured by the snow. In fact, he couldn’t help but notice that the woods seemed _thicker_ than usual. Oppressive.

He told himself it was a trick of the early morning light, and pressed onward, shouting for his mother, though there was no answer. It was entirely silent, the only sound that of his boots crunching through the snow. Even the wind had stopped, as if all the sound had been sucked out of the world.

Lotor shook, and not only from the cold.

Then the footprints stopped.

He stared at the dead trail, jaw slack.

“Mom?” He tried, voice sounding weak to his own ears, eyes scanning the trees, hopeful. For a moment, relief swelled in him as he spotted a figure in the trees, but it was short-lived.

He had never seen any pictures of his father, and the stories he’d managed to convince his mother to tell had lacked much description, but Lotor had a feeling he would have recognized him anywhere. Yellow eyes held his gaze, freezing him in place as the moment seemed to stretch around him. Nothing seemed quite real, and then he felt—

Well, he’d done enough of it himself to recognize when someone was trying to fuck with his head, and his father, it seemed, felt no need to be gentle or subtle. It was heavy-handed, like fingers worming into his frontal lobe, and it broke the hold he had on him. Lotor turned on his heel and took off in the direction he came, lungs burning with the cold as he ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

He hardly had the presence of mind to stop back at home and throw a few necessities into a backpack, uncertain when he’d be able to come back.

_Just run,_ his mother had always told him. _As fast and as far as you can._

_I will find you._

Lotor hesitated, uncertain, though only for a moment; the memory of those eyes, looking right through him, was enough to convince him that this wasn’t an ideal time to be rebellious, and he slung his bag over his shoulders before running in the direction of the highway, just through another short stretch of trees and across a field. He could make it, he told himself, refusing to even glance behind him.

He also made a mental note to do more cardio, because he was gasping by the time he made it to the road—which wasn’t exactly teeming with traffic, and for a moment Lotor thought he was going to have to keep going on foot when a van came around the bend. He could have whooped with joy; he settled for throwing his arms in the air and waving them to get the driver’s attention.

And if he reached out with his mind with a plea to _stop stop please stop_ , well, he had no way of knowing if that was the reason the van slowed in front of him. The window rolled down, and Lotor leaned on the door, peering in at the man who was staring right back at him (he probably looked a sight, still trying to catch his breath, a mess from getting dressed quickly and running).

“What the hell are you thinking?” The man asked. “It’s freezing outside.”

There wasn’t exactly a script for this kind of thing, at least not that Lotor knew of, but if there were, he didn’t think that would be on it.

He shrugged and smiled, panting. “I need a ride.”

The driver narrowed his eyes. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Something like that.”

“...Am I going to get into trouble if I give you a ride?”

Lotor fought the urge to look over his shoulder. “Not if we get going and go fast.”

He appraised Lotor for a moment longer, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in thought, and then gave a nod. “Fair enough.”

With a breath of relief, Lotor opened the door.


	2. Chapter 2

I.

 

Thace Prochaka was, technically, homeless, although he tended to think about it in a less  _ literal _ sense.

He’d always been possessed by wanderlust, but he had a home, once, and not one of wood, brick, and plaster—no, he had been flesh and bone and lazy mornings and singing in the shower, and Thace had thought he was clever because you never miss home if you hold your home close and warm at night.

You can always take home with you, until you can’t.

 

II.

 

He didn’t like to think about it, which he thought was perfectly understandable.

Not thinking about it was easier if he didn’t give himself the chance.

(He still thought about it more than he wanted.)

So, Thace Prochaka was technically homeless, because a van, a string of motels, and the occasional accommodating stranger’s couch did not constitute a “home,” or even plural “homes.”

He was comfortable with this. After all, he’d figured his future would be something similar to this, nevermind that in his vague imaginings of  _ where do you picture yourself five ten fifteen years from now _ he hadn’t gone solo—but the band had broken up nearly a decade ago, and it was just his own gear rattling around in the back of his van. East and west and north and south, it was just Thace and the radio and America.

 

III.

 

It wasn’t because he was lonely—that would be a little creepy, given the circumstances. Thace had no problem with being by himself (though, a little company never hurt…).

But, well, the last ten years had all run together, and normally he felt comfort in that. Kolivan warned him, from time to time, that “people don’t thrive in stagnation,” and maybe this was a sign that they were right, because tall, skinny young men with long hair waving down one’s van on the side of a deserted backroad has a tendency to throw a wrench in whatever  _ stagnation _ one had achieved. Because, as a general rule, Thace didn’t pick up hitchhikers, not that he’d seen that many. It was risky business for both parties.

He couldn’t put a finger on what was different, but he felt almost compelled, or drawn in somehow. Maybe he was bored.

Regardless, Thace slowed to a stop on the shoulder, and rolled down the passenger window. Upon closer inspection, he was a mess; hair and clothes disheveled, face flushed from exertion, and panting. He’d been running from something. Someone. It didn’t matter.

“What the hell are you thinking?” He asked before he could stop himself. “It’s freezing outside.”

The stranger shrugged, and flashed him a crooked smile (there was something  _ off _ , though Thace couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. His smile was too sharp, his eyes too blue,  _ something _ ) and said, breathlessly, “I need a ride.”

Thace wasn’t sure what to make of it, thought it was a simple enough request, and not unexpected, per se. There was definitely more to the story, that much he could tell. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

He at least looked somewhat bashful. “Something like that.”

_ How cryptic. _ “...Am I going to get in trouble for giving you a ride?”

“Not if we get going and go fast.”

Thace knew this probably meant No Good, on some level. Between the thinly-veiled desperation and the non-answers to his questions, there was Trouble of some kind.

But, whatever it was, Thace couldn’t just  _ leave _ him to it. He was scared, and alone, and it really was cold. It was better Thace picked him up, he thought, than some creep or murderer. He just hoped that he wouldn’t end up getting creeped or murdered as a result.

He nodded, and gestured for the stranger to hop in. “Fair enough.”

His relief was visible, and he eagerly opened the door.

As he climbed into the passenger seat, Thace’s eyes wandered across the field, and his gaze was drawn to what had to be the biggest stag he’d ever seen (could they even  _ get _ that big?) standing just outside the tree line, head high and antlers curving tall and proud toward the sky, shedding their velvet out of season. He knew, somehow, despite the fact that he was too far away to tell, that the stag was staring at them—at  _ him _ . Of course, there was no way it was watching him, not  _ really _ , but he couldn’t help the feeling of eyes boring into him from across the field, and a chill shot down his spine that had nothing to do with the winter air.

Then the man leaned back in the seat to fasten his seatbelt, and the spell was broken, almost as quickly as it began.

Thace pressed a little too hard on the gas as he pulled back off the shoulder.

“I’m Lotor, by the way,” he offered, making himself comfortable.

“Thace,” he answered, and put the deer out of his mind.

 

IV.

 

“So, where are you going?”

Lotor’s voice abruptly cut through the quiet, startling Thace a bit. They’d been silent for nearly half an hour, now, the only sound in the van the radio playing softly. Thace had assumed that he just...didn’t want to talk.

“That’s kind of a long story,” he replied, a little bashfully. He snuck a glance at his new companion, blinking at him expectantly. “I kind of keep myself moving.” Which brought him to a somewhat pressing topic. “So, I guess I can just...drop you off wherever you’re headed. It’s probably on the way.

Lotor slumped into his seat sheepishly. “Ah. I didn’t exactly have a destination in mind. I just had to leave.” Thace’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t have time to ask his question before Lotor was already answering it. “And no, you aren’t going to get in any trouble.” He flashes another one of those sharp smiles, though this one is warmer. Softer. He’s still got this weird feeling that he can’t shake—not  _ bad _ exactly, just...strange. He can’t put his finger on it. He returns the sentiment regardless, and the atmosphere is becoming just a little bit less...strained.

“You never told me where you’re going,” Lotor points out, his smile curving at the corners in amusement. Thace can only shrug.

“West.” It was the only answer he could really offer him; it was the pattern. Back and forth, one way and then the other. He visited a lot of places, but he never stayed more than a night or two. A never ending road trip. Lotor’s eyes were fixed on him, studying, like a cat’s.

“That’s pretty cryptic,” he teased, still gazing at him steadily. After a moment, he piped up again. “You do this a lot.” It wasn’t a question, and it caught Thace by surprise. “You aren’t using a map or anything.” Right, of course. “Also, there’s a mattress pad rolled up in the back.”

...Observant, this one.

“I do,” he replied, laughing a bit at his own paranoia. “I’m a musician, so I just kind of...go from place to place.” It was easy, to pretend that was the only reason.

“Sounds fun.”

_It can be._ “It is.”

“Lonely?”

He blinked for a moment, caught off guard once again—either Lotor had an uncanny ability to cut right through to the heart of things, or… “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry.” He seemed like he mostly meant it. “‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ I know.”

Thace paused, then chuckled a bit. “Yeah, well, ‘satisfaction brought him back to life.’” He could see too-blue eyes widen and shimmer in his periphery. “We’ve got a long trip ahead. May as well get to know each other.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. “Let’s take turns,” he suggested, and Lotor perked up beside him. “So. I picked you up because...I guess I was curious, too.” Lotor seemed content with the answer. “Why were you hitchhiking? It’s dangerous, you know. A lot of sick people out there.”

“Would have been more dangerous to stay. Besides,” he could feel Lotor eyeing him, smiling, “I’m pretty good at reading people.”

He cut Lotor a look from the corner of his eye. “‘Dangerous’ how, exactly?”

“Ah-ah,” Lotor mock-scolded, wagging his finger playfully. “My turn.”

 

V.

 

They’d continued like that for hours, going back and forth with questions, until they ran out of them, and fell into a considerably more comfortable silence. Thace sort of missed the conversation, but the quiet was better for concentrating on the mountain roads (no matter how many times he did this, he couldn’t help the little seed of anxiety in his chest when he took these roads in the winter). Over the radio, Simon and Garfunkel sang about  _ counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike _ , and Lotor seemed to be dozing off, curled up in the passenger seat. Thace’s ears popped as they continued gaining altitude, rounding a bend in the road.

Lotor sat up abruptly—Thace nearly slammed on the brakes in surprise—grabbing his shoulder.

“What the hell—”

“ _ Look. _ ” Thace realized that Lotor wasn’t afraid, just...enamored. He turned his attention out the window, at the world spread out beneath them. “You can see for  _ miles _ .”

“Never been this way before?” Thace asked, not quite laughing, relaxing once more. There was a long pause before Lotor answered.

“I’ve never left home before.”

He didn’t wait for Thace to reply; he rolled down the window, propping his elbows on the door and hanging his whole upper body out the window, seemingly unbothered by the cold. Thace nearly scolded him, but stopped himself. He remembered the first time he saw this sort of view, his own raw amazement at how beautiful the world could be.

It had been a long time since he’d paid much attention to it.

Lotor stayed leaning out the window, taking in the world around and below them, the wind making a mess of his hair, though he either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. When Lotor sat back down again, he was wiping at his eyes, watery from the wind—at least, Thace thought it was the wind—his brown cheeks ruddy from the cold.

“You see this all the time?” He asked, and rolled up the window while Thace turned up the heat for him.

“This and more,” he answered, his own grin going completely unchecked. Lotor’s gaze was fiery, now, determined, and while his smile still had that strange, dagger quality, his unbridled excitement made it...softer. Lotor was definitely too old to really be considered a  _ kid _ , but there was something whimsical and childlike about his open awe, his unrestrained amazement. It had something warm bubbling in Thace’s chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t sure he had a name for it, but he knew he’d missed it.

“I want to see all of it.”

Thace laughed out loud.

One thing was for sure: the trip would be far from boring.


	3. Chapter 3

I.

 

Lotor pouted when they descended the mountain roads, and pouted more when Thace laughed at him for it. It was good-natured laughter, at any rate, and was accompanied by promises that there would be plenty more scenery where that came from.

They stopped at a small gas station, and while Thace filled up the van’s fuel tank Lotor ducked inside to grab snacks. Didn’t road trips and junk food go hand in hand?

He left with a plastic bag full of an assortment of chips, cookies, soda and a pack of licorice in one hand, and the biggest slushie they carried in the other. Thace stared at him for a moment as he got back in the van and shook his head.

“Of course you’d get a slushie in the middle of winter.”

Lotor answered by sticking his tongue out, stained blue from the syrup, and Thace chuckled.

“Brat.”

 

II.

 

“So you play guitar,” Lotor began, eyes roaming over the cases in the back of the van. “Are you solo? Or are you meeting up with people?”  


“Just me,” Thace replied, eyes flicking over to him only briefly. His next thought is loud, but Lotor doesn’t need to ask or prompt--Thace offers it up himself. “I was in a band, once, but that was a long time ago.”

Tuning things out is possible, and usually easy, like tuning out background conversation. Usually, the thoughts are quiet, anyways--that’s how Thace’s are, for the most part, a soft hum, like a radio with the volume turned down.

But every now and then, it’s like someone cranks the dial up to ten. Not enough to really get a full picture, or a sentence, but enough that it’s a bit jarring. Enough that Lotor can guess where he shouldn’t tread.

He doesn’t ask why Thace quit the band, because he shouldn’t know that he quit, and he isn’t sure he wants to know why.

_ Hands shaking shaking empty eyes _ and a name, a name just on the tip of his tongue but it’s like smashing his head into a brick wall.

“What kind of band was it?”

Thace clears his throat, smiling sheepishly. “Punk.”

Lotor grinned, leaning towards him. “What? You were a punk?”

“Yeah. I think my old jacket’s still floating around in the back somewhere.”

There was no  _ think _ about it; Lotor got a quick flash of Thace tucking it away into one of the boxes that he’d seen sitting in the back. “This I’ve gotta see.”

“You’re awfully interested,” Thace chuckled.

“Why not? It’s cool. Did you mosh?”

This time Thace laughed out loud. “What, you haven’t noticed my mosh pit nose job?”

Lotor wrinkled his own nose in sympathy. “Ouch.”

“We even did the stick-and-poke tattoo thing,” Thace shook his head, still laughing, but quieter. More to himself. “Some of them faded, but…” He trails off, smile faltering just a bit, and he shrugs. “I had a friend who was really good at them. That one’s still looking pretty clean, for ten years.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?” He laughs, though he can feel his own back itching.

“The trick is to do it when you’re drunk.” He paused, then cleared his throat again. “Not that I’m encouraging that kind of thing.”

“Oh no, I’m being negatively influenced,” Lotor deadpanned. “Time to drink, like, twenty doobies.”

Thace snorted. “Nobody calls them  _ doobies _ .”

“If that’s your only criticism I think you need to reexamine your priorities.”

“Who taught you to be this snarky?”  


Lotor grinned. “My mom.”

 

III.

 

Thace kept his music collection right behind the front seats, for easy access, and Lotor was keeping himself well entertained by looking through it. He didn’t have any records--“They don’t travel well, unfortunately”--but he had plenty of cassette tapes, about half of which were hand-labeled mix tapes. “The precursor to playlists on--what’s that new app everyone’s using now? Spookify?”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I promise I am. I’m not  _ that _ old.”

He settled on one that didn’t have a track list, but a pretty hand-drawn cover of stars and planets. The first song was Bowie, and he leaned back in his seat, head bobbing along to the music.

“So, your mom,” Thace began, and Lotor stretched. “She know where you are right now?”

“Nope.”

He saw Thace tense. “Really? Won’t she worry?”

“Nope,” he repeated again, and fished in the plastic bag for some Oreos. “She’ll know where to find me.” Once it was safe, at least.

He realized with a start that he had no idea where  _ she _ was, though--he’d run as soon as he saw his father, had no way of knowing if she was even--

No.

“She’s a witch. Maybe the best one. She’ll be able to find me.” He tried to ignore the way his voice pitched just a little higher. Like he wasn’t certain. Like he was trying to convince himself.

“A witch, huh? Like reading palms and stuff?”

Lotor nodded, trying not to laugh. “She always said that stuff’s a big joke, but it was how she got started. It was the first thing she taught me, too.”

“Growing up must have been pretty interesting.”

Lotor made a sound of agreement. “Never got around to learning any of the really cool stuff, but I read enough of her books and notes that I could probably figure it out.” If he didn’t remember how his mother tried to hide the books, the way she feared showing him anything of value or consequence.

If he didn’t remember how  _ scared _ it made her.

“Anyway, she’ll know where to find me.”

Thace hummed, an uncertain noise. He knew something strange was going on, but didn’t ask. Whether out of some sense of decency and respect of privacy, or simply a desire to remain blissfully ignorant, Lotor couldn’t quite tell. It saved him from lying, one way or the other.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that there were some things that just couldn’t be explained to--outsiders, for lack of a better word. And Thace would be better off not knowing, anyway. He’d get Lotor far away, and then never see him again, and that would be that. No need to complicate things with long, and probably unbelievable, explanations of the fair folk and their laws.

 

IV.

 

The town was, if he were being totally honest with himself, depressing. He hoped it was just the winter gloom, and not the town itself, but it was a quiet, almost lifeless place.

The bar where Thace was setting up to play wasn’t much better. It’s whole schtick was that the building was an old barn, and it certainly smelled like one, despite the fact that it hadn’t been used for housing animals for several years. It was dim, and humidly warm, so much so that Lotor almost would have preferred to be outside in the cold. Almost.

He helped Thace carry in amps, and then slid into a place at the bar while he set up, unsure of what else to do with himself for the evening.

Maybe it was the damp heat, but he felt almost claustrophobic, like the air was actually heavy. The drunk, or at least half-drunk, thoughts of everyone in the bar grew louder the longer he sat there, slow and thick.

He didn’t know what to do while he waited for Thace’s gig to finish, but the itching anxiousness and the clumsy stumble of too many too-loud thoughts were giving him some ideas, as well as the shelf of liquor behind the bar. He wouldn’t be twenty-one for six more months, but convincing the bartender to hook him up anyway wouldn’t be too difficult.

With a little nudge, a glass of whiskey was placed in front of him, and he slid cash across the counter the  _ clearly confused _ bartender. Fortunately, he just moved on with a shake of his head. Lotor got the sense that this wasn’t the weirdest thing to ever happen to the man, but thought better of prying. He’d already invaded enough.

The whiskey dulled things enough that he could relax. It didn’t taste very good, but trying for one of the mixed drinks seemed like pushing his luck, so he sipped at his drink contentedly.

Thace wasted little time with a soundcheck, and then launched right into his first song-- an instrumental, the guitar a low, bluesy growl that Lotor could feel through the floor, and for the first time in a long time, all the thoughts around him were drowned out.

 

V.

 

“Should I  _ ask _ how you talked the bartender into serving to you?”

Lotor wasn’t  _ drunk _ , but he did end up leaning on Thace just a little bit as they walked out the door. 

….Okay, he was a little drunk.

He grinned. “I’m very charming. Haven’t you noticed?”

Thace rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite hide the way the corners of his mouth ticked up just slightly. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Come on, let’s get some food in you.”

They walked to a nearby diner (Thace insisted that the cold would help sober him up, and it was a short walk anyway) that had a 1960’s aesthetic and had probably been standing since about then too.

“Oh, they have a jukebox!”

“It works, too,” the waitress piped in helpfully, and Lotor had already begun digging coins out of his pockets as Thace steered him toward a booth.

“Food first, then you can play with the shiny.”

“Booooo.” Dramatically, he flopped onto the vinyl seat, looking over the menu (which doubled as a placemat). He ordered hot chocolate and chocolate chip waffles, laughing as Thace looked at him like he’d just dropped in from Mars.

“Sweet tooth?”

“Mmhm.”

“...Where do you  _ put _ it?”

Lotor only shrugged, sipping at his hot chocolate with a cheeky little smile. As soon as he’d finished his waffles he hopped up--only wobbling a little bit--and hurried over to the jukebox, flipping eagerly through the selections. He settled on a Bobby Darin song and popped a few coins into the machine, beaming as the music started. A thought occurred to him, and he whirled around as Thace was stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth. “Dance with me?”

Thace gave him a wide-eyed stare and made a muffled noise before swallowing thickly. “What was that?”

“You should dance with me!” Lotor repeated, already hurrying back over to their booth to grab Thace’s hand.

“Oh- no, I don’t really dance,” he chuckled, glancing away, but Lotor was pretty sure he was only shy, so he...gave him a little nudge.

“Come on, afraid you’ll break a hip?” he teased, Thace already rising to his feet. If it surprised him, the challenge in Lotor’s voice overshadowed it, making him grin.

“Fine. But don’t complain when I step on your toes.”

“I’m drunk, I probably won’t do much better.” He took Thace’s hand, settling the other on his waist, and grinned as color rose to the man’s cheeks.

“Why do  _ you _ get to lead?”

“I’m taller.”

Thace looked up at him, spluttering because  _ no fair, T doesn’t make me any  _ taller--but Lotor only lingered on that thought for a moment. “What about seniority?”

Lotor heaved an exaggerated sigh, and moved Thace’s hands to his waist instead, draping his arms over the man’s shoulders. “How’s that? Better?”

“Better,” he muttered, with the tiniest of smiles, ears still a little pink.

Thace did step on his toes quite a bit, but Lotor couldn’t bring himself to mind, with the whiskey and Thace’s soft, happy thoughts creating a low hum at the back of his head.

The spinning was starting to make him just a little bit dizzy though.

As the song ended, they practically fell back into the booth, laughing quietly.

Until Thace wasn’t laughing anymore.  


Until Thace noticed--that he didn’t dance. Especially not with strange men he’d just picked up earlier that day. Then his eyes hardened, and the moment’s warmth drained in an instant.

“You’re a sulfur,” he murmured, low so no one else could hear it, and all it took was that word for Lotor’s mood to sour. He knew that Thace felt it--just a quick pulse of anger and confusion--but he stifled it quickly.

“What did you call me?”

Thace blinked at him for a moment, his face slowly softening into one of honest bewilderment. “You don’t know?”

“ _Should_ I?” He snapped, instantly feeling bad, but too stubborn to apologize. If Thace minded, he didn’t say anything, just asked for their checks.  


“I guess I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

 

VI.

 

There are seven elements--four core elements, and then the three celestial ones.

Fire, water, earth, and air.

Mercury, salt, and sulfur.

Every human being has one, but many don’t know it.

“It’s like a defense mechanism,” Thace explained, once they’d paid their tab and they’d made it back to his van. “It’s a response to trauma. When did you say you got yours?”

“I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” Lotor pointedly ignored the troubled look on Thace’s face. “What about you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Eleven years.” Lotor saw it again, a quick burst of fear. Of those glazed over eyes staring emptily. “And you haven’t… Ever lost control? Made something happen that you couldn’t stop?”

Lotor shook his head. “Does that happen? To you?”

“Not often.”

Each element has an unstable state, when the powers that come with it spin out of control.

“I’m earth,” Thace continued, “so when I go unstable, things sort of...shake. Like a little earthquake.” Lotor pretended to be very interested in his cuticles.

“What happens,” he ventured carefully, “when a sulfur goes unstable?”

Thace paused for a moment, remembering. “Intrusive thoughts. And not being able to control what thoughts you put in other people’s heads.” Lotor felt his gaze as he glanced over. “...You did it to me. Just a little bit. Back at the diner. I felt what you did.”

It was quiet for a long moment.

“My mom,” Lotor finally spoke up. “She knew all this time--but she would never tell me. I saw her, in a notebook, call me a sulfur, but.” He shrugged. “She would never tell me what it meant. I didn’t know. Just that she was...scared. Sometimes. Of me, or--or something she’d done to me? I’m not--”

“Hey, hey,” There was suddenly a warm hand on his forearm, Thace reaching over to steady him as he steered with his left hand. “Slow down. It’s okay. You know now, and it’s not all that scary, right?”

“I’ve always--been sulfur. Nothing _happened_ to me.”  


Thace shook his head. “That’s not how it works for humans.”

Lotor clamped his mouth shut then, veins turning to ice.

Thace knew a lot more than Lotor had thought he would.

 

VII.

 

Lotor lay sprawled on the motel bed, thoughts running in circles.

Thace knew about the fae.

He hadn’t thought any humans knew about them, besides his mother of course, and, well.

Himself. But he only half-counted.

Maybe he should have assumed--Thace knew a whole lot about the elemental stuff, and it was starting to seem like the two concepts went hand in hand. He wished he could ask his mother, but he knew he couldn’t even if she were with him.

Thace had made him promise not to read his mind--or at least to do his best. But he was so loud right now, he could hear him thinking over the sound of the shower. Not clearly. Just muffled. But audible. He was still worried about him, about whatever it was that had made him a sulfur so young. He was tempted to give him a little nudge of reassurance, but he’d promised not to do that, too.

When the shower stopped, the noise got a little softer. Relaxed.

Then he stepped out in just sweats and his mind was all noise. With a little concentration, Lotor blocked it out, gaze catching for just a moment on the scars on Thace’s chest. So  _ that’s  _ what he meant by T.

“I. Am way too used to being alone on these trips,” he muttered, frantically digging for a shirt, and Lotor bit his lip trying to hold back a laugh.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” He grinned, and began to wriggle out of his own shirt. “Solidarity!”

“Oh my god. You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

“Maybe just a little.”

Thace snorted, shaking his head, but he dropped the shirt, and climbed into his own bed. “Go to sleep.”

 

VIII.

 

That night he dreamt he was at a dance.

It was something straight out of a Venetian masquerade, all bright colors and ornate costumes and strange faces hidden behind strange masks. The room was enormous, all marble and gold, with chandeliers sparkling above, like something out of a fairy tale.

He knew where he was, like an instinct, even though he had never seen it before--even though he likely never would, not in person.

The Court.

All the spinning and dancing was making him dizzy, and he grew even more lost in the crowd. And then, across the room of dancers, he saw his father, the only one not wearing a mask, and the only one wearing black. The antlers sprouting from his head gleamed gold in the light of the chandeliers. He didn’t look the same as the last time Lotor saw him, but he knew the Alder King had many faces.

Suddenly the music stopped, and there were hundreds of eyes all turned toward him. Angry. Accusing.

Then the whole crowd converged on him at once.


End file.
